Writing was my first love. It's still far and away the thing I most love to do. While a lot of people I know love technology on a deep level and nerd out on the intricacies of protocols and stacks, I got into this game to tell stories. I'm excited by choices of words and narrative structure. In the process, I've learned to love technology too, but it's always been secondary. Technology is the medium; stories are the message.

It's been a rough year for everyone. For me, 2020 has come at the end of a handful of really rough years. In 2019, I spent eleven weeks by my mother's hospital bed. In 2018, the job of my dreams laid me off and it was overwhelmingly likely that I had a terminal, genetic disease. In 2016, the country I grew up in voted to not allow me to live there anymore. I've been living in a maelstrom of grief and stress for quite a while.

So I decided I needed a gift for myself. This year, despite a demanding job and the need to help care for my mother, I decided I was going to allow myself to spend time on writing. I enrolled myself in some workshops, two writing classes, and a competition.

To my surprise, I'm through to the finalist round of the competition. The feedback I've received from my writing class has been constructive and positive. I thought I was giving myself space to do something I love - and I was. But it also gave me a rush of confidence that I didn't anticipate. I'm a more confident writer as a result.

In 2021, I've lined up my second of two classes. I've also built up enough of a body of short story work to submit for publication. These will not be my first-ever submissions, nor my first publications, but I'm confident that I'm a better writer than I was in January. And my goal by the end of 2021 will be to complete my first novel.

Most of all, I'm happy to have embraced my meandering, creative interests. I'm in awe of people who go deep on their love of technology, but that isn't me. I've accepted that, and am confidently moving in a slightly different direction.